


The Song in the Silence

by Hufflepuff_Forever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aphonia, British Sign Language, Disability, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by the Piano, Lonely Mycroft Holmes, May/December Relationship, Murder Mystery, Muteness, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Non-Graphic Violence, Piano, Piano Sex, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-The Final Problem, Sex most chapters, Sign Language, The Black Dahlia - Freeform, The Game is On!, True Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2020-08-14 05:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hufflepuff_Forever/pseuds/Hufflepuff_Forever
Summary: A year after the events at Sherrinford, Mycroft still feels that he is surrounded by goldfish. Nonetheless, his near death experiences have awoken his desires to live a life less solitary. Mycroft gives into his instincts when he meets by chance a young piano teacher suffering from severe aphonia. Different from the rest of the world, their peculiarities bind them together.Meanwhile, the game is on for Sherlock and Dr. Watson, as they fight to catch a predator hunting the streets of London.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft closed the french door behind him and stepped into the darkness of the veranda. Behind him, he left a bustling cocktail party, celebrating the retirement of some general. Mycroft despised swimming amongst the goldfish. The ordinary. 

But socializing was a necessary evil. Necessary to hold a spot in the Cabinet Office. Necessary to blend in with the sea of fish swimming amongst him. Nerves flare when a shark is in the water. 

He lit a cigarette. Truthfully, he only smoked because the need for a cigarette was a valid excuse to get out of most rooms. Mycroft never once in his life craved nicotine or the smell of tobacco. 

He exhaled a large plume of smoke and examined the vast expanse of neatly manicured lawns before him. His eyes picked up movement. 

Twenty meters from the veranda there was a pergola, under which Mycroft could see the faint outline of a woman sitting on a bench. Instinctively, Mycroft began to walk towards her, his footsteps echoing off the stone path that meandered through the lawn. 

As he neared the pergola, the woman turned to face the man approaching her. 

“Cigarette?” Mycroft offered. The woman shook her head. “If you’re going to be truant, you at least need an excuse,” Mycroft said jovially, again offering the woman a smoke. 

With a motion she declined. 

The darkness did not play to Mycroft’s favor. It was hard to see the woman’s face, but he could see her figure. Petite. Slender but with curves. Long blonde hair. The lack of aging of her hands meant she couldn’t have been over thirty. A little young for a party such as this. No one would dare bring a mistress to this type of function. 

“Won’t your father be dissapointed you’re missing his party?” Mycroft quipped, taking a seat next to the woman on the bench. 

The woman shook her head, turning her face towards Mycroft. Ah, he could deduce better with her face in the moonlight. 

Celestial nose. Full lips. Blue eyes. From the creases near her eyes, he would place her at twenty six. She wore pearl earrings. Fake pearl earrings. Dearest clearly wasn’t in daddy’s good graces. Her dress was nice enough, but it clearly wasn’t custom tailored. Again, clearly on the outs from the family cash flow. Illusion neckline. Navy. Cocktail length. Long sleeves. Interesting choice for a woman so young. Her legs were toned. Clearly a light run was part of her daily schedule. She was pretty. 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he held out his hand and introduced himself. 

The woman smiled softly, and they shook hands. She looked Mycroft up and down for only a second. Quickly, she pulled a small rectangle of ivory cardstock from a small clutch. Next came out a pen. Swiftly, she wrote a note on the back and passed it to Mycroft. 

_ I only speak BSL _ . 

“You’re not deaf,” Mycroft signed. “You can hear me.” he spoke aloud, while signing. 

She nodded. 

“I can’t speak, but you sign well,” the woman signed to Mycroft. 

“It’s a useful skill. One of the many languages I speak.” He flipped the piece of cardstock over. 

_ Susan Crawford. Piano Instructor.  _

A phone number followed. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Crawford.” 

Susan caught Mycroft’s eye. “How did you know I’m the General’s daughter?” she signed. 

“I’m someone who knows these things,” Mycroft said stretching his legs out from the bench. The woman in navy smiled lightly. “Not enjoying the soiree?” Mycroft asked. 

“I could accuse you of the same,” Susan answered with a small smile. 

Mycroft smirked. “My attendance is a necessary formality.”

“Not a friend of the General then?” 

“Just a distant wheel in the same machine.” 

Suddenly Mycroft remembered. Crawford. Nasty special forces agent. This girl had a brother. It must be the same family. “Is your brother in attendance tonight?” 

“Yes. He is inside,” her smile wavered just for a second. Child on the outs. Deductions were so much more fun in the dark. 

“Your absence is surely felt at this point,” Mycroft said, standing up and offering the woman his hand. He helped her to her feet and squashed the cigarette with his foot. “Allow me to accompany you inside.” 

They began to make their way up the stone path, moving towards the illuminated manor house. Susan Crawford walked at a snail's pace, clearly prolonging the inevitable. 

Susan paused. Mycroft turned towards her. 

“Mr. Holmes, it was lovely to meet you. I meet very few people who can read signs. If you’d like to get a drink, please feel free to text me. Phone calls are difficult. ”

Mycroft looked down at the little piece of cardstock, still lingering in his hand. Susan walked towards the house, leaving Mycroft alone in the darkness. He tucked the card into his pocket. 

A few moments later, Mycroft meandered through the crowd of the party. The festivities were winding down. Soon, he could retreat back to solitude. 

A woman several years his senior appeared by his side. Alicia. 

“Enjoying the party Mycroft?” Lady Smallwood asked in a low voice. She took a sip of champagne. Mycroft was glad their drink together the previous spring was a one time event. It took five seconds of recreation together for Mycroft to decide he preferred Lady Smallwood as a work colleague. Pushing the thought of that dreadful night out of his head, Mycroft spied Susan Crawford across the room, settled into a chair in the corner, sipping a glass of champagne by herself. 

“General Crawford’s daughter,” Mycroft said in a low whisper to Alicia, motioning with his head to the younger woman across the room. “I had the pleasure of meeting her tonight.” 

Alicia Smallwood looked up at him, “Oh, she cannot speak.” 

“What’s wrong with her?” Mycroft asked, thoroughly intrigued. 

“I met her mother once, several years ago. She’s since passed. Apparently there was some type of infection when she was small. Irreparably damaged her vocal chords.” 

“Good evening Alicia,” Mycroft said, striding away. He made his way to the door, collecting his coat and umbrella from the butler. 

Mycroft Holmes took his leave into the night, departing from the festivities behind him. 

  
  


It was early the next Friday evening. Seven thirty. The light was just beginning to become scarce as Mycroft exited the cab onto a narrow street in Bethnal Green. Posh girls generally didn’t live in the East End. Then again, this posh girl was on the outs. 

Mycroft made his way up the steps of a brick building, clearly Victorian. An elderly woman exited the front door, allowing Mycroft to find his way in without a key. He made his way up three flights of stairs until he found the correct apartment. 

Little to his surprise, light piano music leaked into the corridor. Holding a bottle of red in his left; he knocked with his right. The music stopped. Footsteps. 

Mycroft held his breath for a moment of silence. He knew Susan was peering at him through the spyhole on the door. 

The door opened with a soft creak. There was Susan. She wore a nightdress of white linen, which barely went past her knees, underneath a pink kimono-esque dressing gown. Her face, devoid of a stitch of makeup, looked up at Mycroft with a confused smile. 

“I thought I might tempt you to that drink?” Mycroft said, holding up the bottle of wine in his hand. 

Susan raised her eyebrows. “I meant at a pub or a restaurant,” she signed. 

“Well this bottle is far better than anything a pub could offer,” Mycroft answered with a smirk. 

Susan opened the door fully and motioned for Mycroft to join her inside the flat. 

Mycroft was surprised by how small Susan’s flat was. Immediately after stepping in, Mycroft was in a tight kitchen, with a small table and two chairs. A few feet over was a small sitting area, filled completely by an upright piano and a bookshelf filled with various novels, vinyl, and a record player. A set of curtained french doors must have led to the bedroom, and a small door on his right to the bath. Despite its small footprint, Mycroft found the flat spotless. 

Susan took the bottle of red from Mycroft and pulled down two wine glasses from a shelf. Mycroft invited himself to take a seat at her table. A moment later, the blonde woman sat a full glass of red in front of Mycroft, taking the seat opposite. 

“How did you find my address? It’s not listed,” Susan signed. 

“It doesn’t need to be listed for me to find it,” Mycroft said slyly. 

“Are people in the Cabinet Office allowed to use its information for themselves?” Susan signed with a smirk. 

Mycroft laughed. “How did you know I worked at the Cabinet Office?” 

“Internet,” Susan signed. She took a long sip of wine. “I didn’t expect you to want to see me,” she signed quickly. 

“Then why did you offer?” Mycroft challenged softly. 

“I don’t meet many men who speak my language.” 

Mycroft signed and spoke at the same time. “In fact, I speak 15 languages fluently. And I can see you can read, and presumably write, in French and Spanish.” 

“How do you—” 

“How do I know that?” Mycroft finished her sentence. “The contents of your bookshelf. I can also see that you teach your piano lessons here. The coat hook by your doorway at child’s height gives that away. Other than your pupils, you have few visitors here. Your wine glass is frequently used, where mine has a bit of dust on the stem. You’re in your night clothes at seven thirty on a Friday, which is highly unusual for a woman of your age. There is a decent sized BSL speaking community in London, so you are electing for isolation. The fact that you have a coffee maker over a tea kettle presumes that you prefer coffee and aren’t apt to make tea for visitors, again isolation.” 

“Stop,” Susan signed. 

“I apologize, sometimes I can’t stop myself from making deductions. Usually, I’m polite enough to keep it in my head.” 

“15 languages. Deductions. You must be an actual genius” Susan signed. 

“Well, yes,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “The Royal Society has been promised my brain on the day of my death.”

Susan half smiled. “That must be lonely. To be on a different level than everyone else.”

“I’m not lonely,” Mycroft said. 

“Liar,” Susan signed cocking her head. “I am alone, but so are you. That’s why you came tonight.”

Mycroft looked over to the piano. “How good of a pianist are you?”

Susan got up and walked over to the piano. She sat down. She began to play Brahams. 

Mycroft allowed himself to drift into the music. She was good. Impressively good. 

Susan hit a high note, and Mycroft sprung back into reality. He rose from his chair, and took a seat next to Susan on the piano bench. She was engrossed in the music; she did not acknowledge his presence. 

The sleeves of her dressing down had fallen back to her elbows as she played. Her forearms were littered with faded white scars. The long sleeves on the cocktail dress were now explained. 

Mycroft reached out and touched her arm. The music stopped. Susan took a deep breath, as Mycroft held her arm as to examine it. He watched as her pale cheeks reddened with embarrassment. 

Gently, Susan pulled her arm away from Mycroft and hid it away under the dressing gown’s pink sleeve. She looked down at the piano keys, but her hands made no movement. Her breathing became heavy. 

Silence weighed down the room. 

Finally Mycroft said aloud, “Those scars aren’t recent, are they?” 

Susan shook her head. 

“Are there more?” Mycroft asked. 

Susan nodded. 

“Will you show me?” 

Slowly, Susan untied her dressing down and raised the hem of her nightdress to show almost all of her thighs. More scars. For a moment, she bit her lip. Then, she looked at Mycroft. He ran his finger over a deep white crease. 

“I’ve seen much worse self-destruction. This does not repel me.”

With a shaky hand, Susan lifted Mycroft’s chin, diverting his gaze from her leg to her eyes. She began to sign, “Do you want to see me again,  _ M-y-c-r-o-f-t _ ?” 

“Yes Susan, I would like to see you again.”

“Then, I’m going to call you  _ M _ . Is that alright?” She signed with a weak smile. 

Mycroft leaned in close to Susan, tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and whispered in a low voice, “Susan, I came here tonight because I want you.I won’t shy away from the fact.” 

Mycroft took a deep breath and let his eyes wander down to Susan’s shoulder. With her dressing gown untied, he could admire the curves of her breasts, her nipples were barely hidden from his view by the white linen. 

Susan lifted Mycroft’s chin again and signed with serious eyes, “I know.” She leaned close to Mycroft and raised her lips to his. Lightly, she laid a kiss on Mycroft’s thin lips. As she pulled away from Mycroft, her serious eyes looked into his own. “I don’t normally do this,” she signed. 

“I’m going to draw the conclusion that you’ve never done this,” Mycroft said lightly into her ear. “Am I correct?” Mycroft questioned. 

Susan nodded. 

“Does my age bother you? That I am so young?” she signed. 

Mycroft chuckled, “You should be more bothered by my age. How old do you think I am?” 

“Fifty?” Susan signed. 

“Forty-six,” Mycroft answered. Susan smiled. “It doesn’t bother you?” Mycroft asked. 

Susan shook her head. 

“I want you to play the piano,” Mycroft said into her ear. 

Susan raised her eyebrows, but began to play a soft tune. Debussy. 

Mycroft took the liberty of removing his jacket. He let his fingers brush Susan’s thigh. He placed one hand on her back and let the other glide up her thigh. She shuddered, but the music continued. 

Mycroft brushed Susan’s flaxen hair to the side and lightly kissed her neck. The music stopped. 

“Keep playing,” Mycroft forcefully whispered. Debussy filled the flat. 

As Mycroft’s hands made their way between Susan’s legs, her breathing grew more labored. Mycroft smiled when he found she wasn’t wearing any panties. Gently, Mycroft traced the folds of her sex. Susan gasped. 

“Do you like that?” Mycroft questioned in a low voice. 

Susan nodded. 

“Good, then keep playing.” 

Mycroft felt Susan’s folds begin to grow wet with desire. Slowly, he slid two fingers inside of her, thrusting his hand slowly in and out. She was tight. He felt his cock grow erect with the desire to fill her.

As his fingers moved in and out of the now dripping hole, Mycroft let his thumb caress Susan’s clit. 

She leaned into Mycroft as her playing grew more erratic and imperfect, breathing more heavily with each stroke of Mycroft’s hand. 

“That’s it, Susan,” Mycroft whispered into her ear. “Orgasm for me.”

Suddenly, the playing stopped. Susan leaned all of her weight against Mycroft and dug her nails into his arm. Her body tensed for a moment as Susan bit her lip and then pulled Mycroft’s hand away from her folds. 

She took a deep breath. Susan held Mycroft’s hand as she stayed still for a moment. Then quickly, she flipped her legs over the piano bench and stood, her dressing gown hanging onto her body by one shoulder. 

With one hand, Susan pulled at Mycroft for him to follow her, with the other she made one sign, “Bed.”   
Mycroft took Susan’s hand and let her lead him. She walked backwards a few steps through the french doors to her small bedroom. 

Most of the room was taken up by a double bed, neatly made with white bed linens. 

Mycroft began to loosen his tie, as Susan kissed his lips and undid the buttons of his vest. Within moments, he was undressed and pulling the nightdress off Susan’s body. 

Susan wrapped her arms around Mycroft’s neck and pressed her lips onto his own, as he threw them both onto her bed. 

Mycroft pushed her slender legs back and guided his cock into her sex. 

“Jesus,” Mycroft said aloud. She was tight. Susan dug her nails into Mycroft's back, reacting to the new pressure inside of her. 

Mycroft let go of his constraint and let himself unleash all of his pent up sexual desire onto Susan, her wet sex enveloping Mycroft in a level of pleasure he hadn’t experienced in years. 

He began to thrust into her faster. Susan let her hand cling tightly onto the rail of the headboard as her breathing turned to panting. 

With a final thrust, Mycroft groaned as he pulled out, and his semen spread over Susan’s abdomen. 

He collapsed besides Susan. They both glistened with sweat. Susan let her fingertips feel the pool of himself that Mycroft left on her stomach. 

After a moment, she rose from the bed and made her way through the glass doors, and disappeared into the bathroom to clean herself. 

Collecting himself, Mycroft rose and began to redress himself. As he buttoned his shirt, his phone rang. 

_ Sherlock _

Mycroft answered, “Hello, brother mine.” 

“Mycroft, from the state of your breath, you’ve either been working out or I’ve caught you in a compromising position. The last time I asked you that question it was the first option, now at this hour—” 

“Sherlock, what is it?” 

“John and I need to see you at Baker Street. At your convenience of course.” 

“Why?”

“Come to Baker Street. You’ll see.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Mycroft realigned the front door knocker of 221 B Baker Street. He theorized that Sherlock rotated the knocker just to spite him. Sherlock loved rebelling against any attempts at order Mycroft tried to enact. 

A few steps up the stairs later, he was through the doorway into the younger brother’s flat. The room smelled of dust, stale coffee, and tobacco. Papers were strewn all about. And some lime colored concoction was bubbling in a beaker in the kitchen. Sheer disorder, in the midst of which sat his brother and Dr. Watson holding a toddler. Whoever would bring a child into this mess? 

“Brother mine, for what do I owe this pleasure?” Mycroft asked, leaning onto his umbrella. 

“Take a seat Mycroft,” Sherlock said his thumbs twiddling on his phone, his head beckoning to the seat usually reserved for clientele. Today, Mycroft was no client. 

“Dr. Watson, your child seems as fully functioning as ever,” Mycroft said with a sarcastic grin. 

“Good to see you too, Mycroft,” John said, walking with his daughter towards the stairs, “Let’s go see Mrs. Hudson, Rosie.” He left the brothers alone in the flat. 

Sherlock looked up from his phone, “Have you heard any news of the East Wind, brother?” 

“Eurus is secure. Still non-verbal,” Mycroft said. 

“How often are you receiving updates?” Sherlock asked, his thumbs texting away. 

“More frequently than you visit with your violin,” Mycroft muttered, taking out his own phone. He composed a text to his newly added contact. 

_ Dinner? In a restaurant. Tomorrow? _

He clicked send.

“Did you just send a text message?” Sherlock asked incredulously, his head spinning up from his phone. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said, obviously pleased with himself. 

“You never text if you can avoid it. And you’re smiling. Did you just send a codeword out to start the third World War from my flat?” 

“Nothing of the sort,” Mycroft answered with a condescending nod. 

Sherlock sat back in his chair and studied his brother. 

“Mycroft have you acquired,” Sherlock paused for exaggerated suspense, “_ a goldfish? _” 

Mycroft chuckled. “You know I don’t have friends, brother mine.” 

Sherlock began to make deductions, his words accelerating faster with each syllable, “In your case, I would assume that your goldfish wouldn't be a friend. A lover would be far more likely. Lady Smallwood case in point. And this lover cannot talk to you on the phone, thus the text. Now, she could be working, but any Cabinet Office employee could step out to take a phone call from Mycroft Holmes. Likelihood is you would meet her at the Cabinet Office because you don’t often swim outside of that circle. So, since she can’t take a phone call from you that implies secrecy. A need for secrecy would lead me to assume that this goldfish is married. Mycroft Holmes, you are having an affair with a married woman!” Sherlock stared deeply into his brother’s, evaluating the accuracy of his thinking. 

“Mycroft’s seeing a married woman?” John asked, surprised, coming back through the doorway. He had deposited Rosie downstairs with her godmother. 

Mycroft smiled lightly, “I am sorry to inform you that deductions are incorrect.” 

“Which part? The lover? The Cabinet Office? Or her being married?” Sherlock asked in a defeated growl, as John resettled into his chair. 

Mycroft let out a deep breath and spun his umbrella in his hand. “I have taken a lover. However, she is not an employee of the Cabinet Office, and she is unmarried.” 

“Good for you,” John said flatly, reclining in his chair, “I can attest that loneliness is a bitch.” 

“This will be fun,” Sherlock said jovially. “Let’s deduce the identity of Mycroft’s lover.” 

“Anthea?” John threw out. 

Mycroft scoffed, “_ Andrea _ prefers the fairer sex. And no, I have already said that she is not a colleague.” 

“So, that’s her real name,” John muttered to himself. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“ She can’t take a phone call, so she must be working. Working on a Saturday at noon. That limits the scope,” Sherlock said to himself. 

“I don’t believe she’s working now,” Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair, a self-pleased smile spread across his face. 

“Then why can’t she take a phone call? Why didn’t you wait to leave here and call her. You detest texting!” Sherlock said aloud, making his deductions. 

“Maybe she just prefers texting?” John added. Sherlock waved him off. 

“Who would you meet that wasn’t a coworker? You work and go home!” Sherlock sneered at Mycroft. 

“Christ, Mycroft, just tell your brother about your new girlfriend. You two can be normal for five minutes,” John said, throwing up his hands in annoyance as Mrs. Hudson stepped in with Rosie. 

“Dear, you have someone? Poor woman,” Mrs. Hudson said, moving to the kitchen to prepare tea. 

“Fine,” Mycroft said, “While she is a civilian, I did meet her at a work event. It was a retirement party for her father, General Isaac Crawford. Dr. Watson, you may know of him. 

“Commander in Chief Land Forces,” John replied, “I’ve seen his son on the ground. In Afghanistan. Nasty piece of work.” 

“That would be the correct family.” 

Sherlock was typing away on his laptop. 

“I assume you would be seeing his daughter, Susan?” Sherlock inquired, pointing at a family snapshot from the retirement event. There was Susan, dressed in the navy cocktail frock, standing next to her father, her brother, and sister-in-law. 

Mycroft nodded. 

“Wasn’t her brother accused of war crimes? Let’s see. Didn’t he shoot a grandmother in the head on neutral soil?” John asked Mycroft. “Is brutality genetic in that family?” 

“Likely not.” Sherlock answered for Mycroft. “It seems she is a piano teacher. A bit pedestrian for you, Mycroft. And _ young _.” 

Mrs. Hudson looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the screen. “You are a vampire, stealing that girl’s youth,” she chastised at Mycroft. 

“Worry not Mrs. Hudson. I haven’t stolen her youth yet,” Mycroft retorted. 

“But why couldn’t she talk on the phone?” Sherlock asked incredulously. 

“She suffers from severe and irreversible aphonia,” Mycroft asked. 

“Aphonia? She can’t speak? How does that work?” John asked while Mrs. Hudson gave Mycroft a look of scandal. 

“He speaks sign language very well,” Sherlock answered for Mycroft, once again texting on his phone. “How do you think he orders his tea at that damn club of his? It actually explains everything. Most women in their mid-twenties would never go near Mycroft, unless they were an employee trying to climb through the Cabinet Office, which would never work because Mycroft generally lacks sentiment. A posh young woman meets one of the few men in her social class that can actually converse with her, so she jumps on her chance for male companionship. Am I right this time, brother?” 

Mycroft gave Sherlock a well-mannered golf clap. 

“Why was I summoned here?” Mycroft asked finally. 

“Brotherly concern,” Sherlock said, his eyes focused on his phone. 

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock rose from his chair with glee. “ Shall we go John? LeStrade just texted me. Another body!”

  
  


Sherlock and Dr. Watson ducked under the yellow tape separating a herd of intrusive civilians from the crime scene. Lestrade paced back and forth in a derelict alley that smelled of urine and rotten food, blocking Sherlock’s view from the corpse.

“You were right,” Lestrade called down the alley, “It didn’t take long for another to appear.” 

“Of course I was right. This type of homicidal urge can’t be contained. They’ve likely been building to this for years.” 

John glances over at the body, “Well, he has a type, doesn’t he?”

Sherlock bent over the corpse. Blonde, 5’7”, twenty four, and surgically dissected at the torso. 

“He’s not very original,” Sherlock muttered. 

“I’ve never seen a corpse that’s like this… or the other one” Lestrade countered. 

“I was only half sure last time. He’s mimicking the death of Elizabeth Short. The Black Dahlia. Unsolved crime in Los Angeles from the 40s. Baffled the press and detectives.” 

“The cuts are cleaner on this one,” John said under his breath, a grave look fixed on his face. 

“We’re looking for a surgeon. A surgeon who can’t contain his urges. Start combing through the possibilities, Lestrade,” Sherlock ordered before pivoting back into the London sunlight.

The next evening, Mycroft pushed open the doors of an upscale french bistro in Mayfair. He paused and scanned his surroundings. It took only a short moment for Susan to join him from the small seating area in the foyer. She was clad in a crepe shift dress and plum colored kitten-heels. It was a vogue look to say the least. 

The pair were seated at a table far in the back at Mycroft’s direction. Glasses of red were poured, and the waiter left the pair to sip and stare at each other in silence, with the bustle of the restaurant as a soundtrack in the background. 

Susan bit her lip before beginning to sign, “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” 

Mycroft gave Susan a pompous grin. “It’s a welcome change in my schedule to socialize now and then.” 

“You call this socialization?” Susan signed before raising her eyebrow. 

“Well, what word would you use?” Mycroft signed softly. 

“Recreation.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock paced back and forth across his flat, clad in his bathrobe and little else. Every ten paces he would pause and glare at his wall, littered with crime scene photos and historical documents. He studied the faces of the two victims. Then he stared at the photograph of the Black Dahlia. Elizabeth Short. What did she have in common with either of them? Sure, she was young, but lots of predators preferred their prey fresh… 

Sherlock’s rhythm of pacing and glaring was interrupted when John Watson came through the door. 

“Christ, Sherlock. At least put on some pants.” 

Sherlock scowled with a grunt, before returning to the room a moment later, fully clothed in his signature dress pants and oxford shirt. 

“What is the link between these women?” he asked himself aloud. “Both young, blonde and of similar physique. No ID on either body.” 

“Lestrade is working on identification,” Jon said, glancing over from his chair at Sherlock, whose gaze was pinned at the wall. 

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard Jon. “They were kept somewhere before their bodies were dropped. No clothes. No personal belongings. No foreign fluids were found on them. Jesus, the bodies were practically sanitized before being dumped. I could only tell a few things looking over them with Molly. One frequently smoked marijuana, wore little makeup, and seemed to engage in daily yoga routines. However, those activities could fit multitudes of young women in the UK. The other wore heavy facial makeup to cover up moderate rosacea. Her mascara had run down her face, so she clearly cried during the attack. Thin, but not toned. Not an athlete. And a bottle blonde, not a natural one like the other. So, as far as we can tell, two women with very different daily routines. Different lives.” 

“And as we know, neither of them match a description for any people currently listed as missing,” Dr. Watson added. 

“Stating the obvious doesn’t help, John,” Sherlock nearly sneered. 

Watson rolled his eyes.   
Suddenly, a light bulb seemed to click in Sherlock’s head. “Elizabeth Short,” Sherlock muttered. 

“What about her?” John asked. 

“Elizabeth Short was a prostitute.” 

“And…” 

Sherlock was already typing away on his laptop, sorting through an assortment of lurid sights. John walked up behind Sherlock to observe and drew back in disgust. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. What is this? Find...Your Fantasy...dot net?” 

“These are the types of websites that a man with means, a surgeon, would venture onto to find young women for hire.” 

“Prostitute would make sense. Many might not have someone to notice they’re missing.” 

Sherlock’s mouse hovered over a profile. A sundrenched photo of a young, blonde woman posed in an upward bow— wearing nothing but white lace lingerie. 

He clicked. 

“And here is our first victim,” Sherlock said proudly, “Celeste. Or at least that’s what she’s going by on the website.  _ I’m an all natural girl looking to explore my wilder, primal instincts.  _ John, call Lestrade.” 

  
  


Mycroft once again ascended the stairs of the Victorian walk up to see Susan. He was unannounced, but he had calculated that her lessons would be finishing up for the day. He stepped aside to allow a mother and son, chattering in Bengali, to pass down the narrow stairs. The boy had a piano book in hand; it seemed Mycroft’s timing was correct. 

Mycroft knocked on the door, and Susan answered with a surprised smile. 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Susan signed, as she let Mycroft into her flat. 

“Do you mind surprises?” Mycroft whispered into Susan’s ear as he took the liberty of wrapping his arms around her waist as she bolted the door. She turned to him, as he began to run his hands over her curves. 

Instead of signing in response, Susan guided Mycroft’s lips to her own and began to feverishly kiss his lips. 

They both knew why Mycroft had come at that hour. And they wasted no time dancing around the inevitable. 

In that moment, Mycroft felt greedy--not willing to compromise on his own desires. He shed his overcoat before eyeing Susan’s dress. It was a pale blue number that buttoned from breast to hem. He let the greed overcome his better sensibilities and ripped Susan’s dress open. Several of the pale blue buttons fell to the floor. Susan slipped off what was left of the frock as she trembled with arousal, unfastening her bra and slipping off her panties with a nervous smile. 

Susan led Mycroft to her bed, stripping her lover of his clothes on the way to their destination. As they crossed the threshold into her chambers, Susan seized complete control, much to Mycroft’s surprise. 

On this evening, Susan was feeling greedy with desire as well. She pushed Mycroft onto her bed, mounting him with pleasure. 

Mycroft groaned as he entered Susan; their bodies rocking back and forth in sync. He ran his hands upwards around Susan’s hips and waist, enjoying her curves. Mycroft allowed his hands to cup Susan’s breasts, and he gently massaged her nipples. She let out a deep breath of delight, increasing the vigor and speed of each thrust of her body. 

Mycroft then let his hands slide down and settled on Susan’s hips. His grasp tightened and breath became more labored as he grew closer and closer to climax. 

Susan traced her hands over Mycroft’s chest with a small smile which grew bigger as her pleasure heightened with each motion of her body. She allowed her pelvic muscles to clench, eliciting a deep moan from the man beneath her. Together, they reached the peak of pleasure, Mycroft letting out an animalistic groan while Susan smiled in silent pleasure. 

As their bodies slowed, Susan focused her eyes downwards on Mycroft’s. His eyes were closed for just a moment. Susan wondered if he wanted a private moment? Perhaps, he had reached his limit of human contact. She knew he was a strange man, Mycroft. M. But she too was strange by many accounts; so she could look past, or even appreciate, his oddities. 

Susan raised herself up off Mycroft and settled on the bed next to him. She consciously left a few inches of buffer in between them, waiting for him to initiate the next move. 

“Should we have dinner then?” Mycroft asked nonchalantly, as he rose from the bed and began to dress himself. 

Susan sat up and crossed her legs. She signed, “Why not?” She rose from the bed and retrieved her pink dressing gown from the closet, fastening the garment around her waist. Susan felt her doubts validating. This man could only take so much physical touch at once. 

About a half hour later, they sat at Susan’s small table, eating takeaway rogan josh and malai kofta. Susan eyed Mycroft curiously, wondering if this would be the rhythm of their relationship, dinner and sex and vice versa. 

Suddenly, Mycroft broke the silence. “I want you to come to my place next. I live in Kensington. I’ll send a car.” 

“Kensington? I had no idea government service paid that well,” Susan signed with a smirk. 

“It’s a family property,” Mycroft said with a roll of his eye, “I inherited it from my uncle.” 

“My brother will inherit the family estate from our uncle. Terranley Abbey.” 

“Is the Viscount childless then?”   
“Childless and unmarried. Though, perhaps he has needs a woman couldn’t fulfill. However, he’s always been a decent uncle, fond of his sister’s children.” 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Mycroft said with wicked eyes, “How exactly does the niece of a Viscount come to live in a shoe box in Bethnal Green?” 

Susan pursed her lips before signing, “I don’t have access to my trust until I turn thirty.” 

“Still,” Mycroft continued, “Most families would prefer to keep their heiresses out of the East End.” 

“What have your deductions told you?” Susan signed, skirting around an answer. 

“You’re on the outs,” Mycroft said, resting his chin atop his folded hands. “But finding out the details through gossip is far too tedious of a task.” 

Susan leaned back in her chair, casting a suspicious eye on Mycroft. “I thought this was all recreational?” 

“That it is,” Mycroft answered. “But my curiosity is getting the better of me.” 

Susan wondered if in fact he was beginning to feel sentimental. 

Susan looked away for a moment and began to sign. “My father is the head of my mother’s estate. You see, the Viscount’s sister brought all of the funds into the marriage, but my father manages that fund in her death. I moved out as soon as I graduated from university. I was told if I wanted to receive any allowance until my trust began, I would need to live at home. Or with my brother. My father is not a kind man. My brother doesn’t fall far from the tree. And his wife is even worse. So, I live modestly and on my own.” 

Mycroft nodded. After a moment of thought, he couldn’t help but ask, “But Bethnal Green?” 

Susan smiled. “This community lacks posh clientele. A mute piano teacher can still make a viable sum.” 

Mycroft chuckled. 

“Expect a car to pick you up tomorrow at seven,” Mycroft said as he rose from the table and pulled on his overcoat. 

He bent down and whispered in Susan’s ear, “I have a few ideas for a very entertaining evening.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sifted through an assortment of dirtied laundry, left in place on the floor of the flat of “Celeste” as she went by on the internet. Celeste was definitely more exotic, more alluring, than Natalie. Natalie was a young woman, living in a shoebox, supplementing her income as a yoga instructor with several dalliances with much older men willing to pay for her companionship. 

Holding up a pair of harem pants stained with chai, he found himself interrupted by John Watson. 

“Lestrade just texted. They identified the other victim.” 

Sherlock ignored John, turning the focus of his pocket magnifying glass to Natalie’s marigold sheets. 

“See anything useful?” Watson asked, leaning on a papasan chair doubling as a hamper. 

Sherlock grunted, continuing to go over the victim’s sheets. “She didn’t bring her killer here. Or any men here.” 

“How do you—”

“How do I know? This place is filled with laundry. Not one to tidy up. Yet the sheets are spotless. She didn't conduct her business here.” 

“Smart girl,” Watson said just above a whisper. 

“We’re now looking for a laptop. Or a tablet, ” Sherlock muttered. 

Watson pushed aside some of the laundry on the papasan and held up an aged MacBook. 

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, settling himself into the chair and powering on the device. 

“You really want to go through that thing here?” Watson, striding over to the efficiency’s kitchen and examining a mason jar of some odd, fermented mixture that included too much quinoa. 

“Easier to deduce the password in the user’s natural habitat,” Sherlock answered, his eyes darting around the room. “Natalie, what makes you tick?” Sherlock asked in a whisper, looking around the room for clues. 

“Sherlock,” John said, looking down at his phone. “Lestrade—”

Sherlock shushed John, holding up his hand. 

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the single framed photograph, on a rattan side table. 

“No pictures of family or friends, but there’s one of her holding a cat,” Sherlock said as he held up the photograph. “I think I can see a name on the cat’s collar. Ringo.” 

Sherlock typed R-I-N-G-O into the laptop. No luck. 

R-i-n-g-o. Nothing

r-i-n-g-o 

The laptop unlocked. 

Sherlock smiled to himself. 

“Well done,” John said looking over his friend’s shoulder. “Lestrade identified the other victim.” 

“I heard you the first time. Even the police are capable of surfing the deplorable sections of the internet.” 

“Oh, this one wasn’t a prostitute,” John said, rocking back on his heels. 

Sherlock spun his neck around to look at John with a raised eyebrow. 

“Receptionist at a private medical practice. Confirmed by her dental records. She’s been missing for a few weeks. Parents are devastated.”   
“If she’s been missing for weeks, why wasn’t Lestrade able to identify her quickly?” Sherlock pondered out loud, seemingly addressing a Grateful Dead poster.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“I wasn’t asking you John. Two victims with completely different profiles,” Sherlock said, rising from the papasan and tucking the laptop under his arm. “We need to find where they intersect.” 

Susan excited the Jaguar sedan that Mycroft had sent to fetch her. She looked up at Mycroft’s alabaster white home. Detached in Kensington. The Holmes family had to be a bit more posh than appearances allowed. 

Mycroft opened the door and ushered Susan in, a tumbler of whiskey in hand. Susan gazed up at the oak paneling of the foyer and marble floors. 

“Gloomy,” she signed, stripping off her peacoat. “Have I entered a Gothic novel?” She smirked. 

“I try to keep the Historical spirit of the house alive,” Mycroft said aloud, ushering her down a likewise paneled hallway complete with a suit of armor. They entered a darkened room, complete with a projector and several oversized chairs. 

“Is a theatre in the original spirit of the house?” Susan teased. 

Mycroft disregarded her jab. “I have an admirable collection of films that we can choose from.” 

“We’re watching a movie?” Susan signed. 

“I’ll have you know, I’m quite the cinefile.” 

Susan wandered over to a cabinet complete with several reels of vintage film. 

“They’re all originals. My one vice in collecting.”

“What’s your favorite?” Susan signed looking over her shoulder at Mycroft. 

“Do you like Hitchcock?” Mycroft asked. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“I have an original copy of  _ the Lodger  _ that I’m quite fond of seeing now and again.” 

“I’ve never heard of that one,” Susan signed, pulling the reel out of the cabinet. 

“It’s a silent film. One of Hitchcock’s first.”

“I’ve always been partial to  _ R-E-B-E-C-C-A _ .” 

Mycroft snorted. 

“What?” Susan signed, with a grin. 

“Do you like to romanticize relationships with older men?” Mycroft said with a satisfied grin and crossed arms. 

“Excuse me?” 

“It’s just a curious choice.” 

“Well, you don’t have a psychotic housekeeper obsessed with your dead wife do you? You aren’t a widower M?” 

“Bachelor.” 

Susan stood up and passed Mycroft the film reel of  _ the Lodger _ . He began to load the film into a projector. Together, they watched in silence as high contrast black and white characters fell into place on the screen. Mycroft seemed to be missing the accompanying soundtrack of playful jazz. 

Twenty minutes into the film, Mycroft let his hand slide under the cashmere of Susan’s top and found the lace trim of her lingerie. Susan let out a deep breath and fell into Mycroft, the gray-tones of the actors still dancing across the projection screen, oblivious to the dalliances of their audience. 

Their lips connected as they sunk deeper and deeper into one another. Susan pulled off her cashmere jumper, and Mycroft began to unbuckle his trousers. In seconds, they were on the floor, Susan straddling Mycroft, the silent film punctuated by his soft exclamations. She accelerated, taking in each thrust with pleasure. Mycroft took control, pinning Susan with a provocative force down on the carpet before pushing back her legs. He groaned as he unleashed his energy into Susan, climaxing as she clenched with orgasm. 

Mycroft reclined back onto the maroon carpet of his theatre, and stretched out, wiping the sweat from his brow. Susan breathed heavily, sitting up and pulling back on her cashmere jumper. 

“Gin?” Mycroft asked softly, as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, seeming to collect himself. Susan nodded. Mycroft then helped himself off the ground, and pulled Susan up by the hand. Wordlessly, he began to lead her through more wood panelled archways and hallways until they were in a dimly lit kitchen. This part of the home had been updated, in custom concrete finishes. Susan thought it rather reminded her of a cave with industrial finishes. 

Mycroft opened a stainless steel refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Gordon’s. Susan sat herself down at a cold metal table and accepted a glass. 

“You should stay the night,” Mycroft said quietly, taking in his gin. 

Susan raised an eyebrow, leaned back, and crossed her legs. She gave Mycroft a half, twisted smile. If Susan could laugh, she would be suppressing it at that moment. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Mycroft scoffed. 

Susan smiled gentler. Her eyes softened. 

“I’ll stay,” she signed. 

Sherlock darted up the steps to a set of private medical offices in Richmond with Watson following in his wake. They found themselves in a glass domed atrium that acted as a reception area. To the right was a practice of laparoscopic surgeons, and to the left was a practice of plastic surgeons. 

“Which one?” Sherlock asked Watson under his breath in the reception area. Watson led Sherlock through the doors to the providers of rhinoplasties and implants. Lestrade was waiting, chatting with a receptionist. 

“Ah Sherlock. This is Amanda. She worked with Eileen, our um,” Lestrade paused before quickly dancing over his next word, “victim.” 

“Hello, Amanda,” Sherlock said in a false singsong voice. One look at the short and chunky, brunette told him that she was an avid PC gamer, drank far too much black coffee, and kept a Siamese cat at home. A quick glance at her work station confirmed her nerdom, as there was a miniature of a Dalek nested behind her coffee cup bearing the face of the Doctor, manifested as David Tennant. “Tell me Amanda,” Sherlock said, disregarding Lestrade, “where is Eileen’s workstation?” 

“Back here, Mr. Holmes,” the brunette said in a small, nasally voice, “Let me show you. Amanda mostly did billing and answered calls. She didn’t work much with the front of the house.”   
“John,” Sherlock muttered to his companion under his breath, “I hope the workplace of unfortunate Eileen isn’t lost on you, considering—”

“Considering you think that the killer is a surgeon,” John whispered, finishing Sherlock’s sentences. 

“Amanda,” Sherlock began with a smile meant to disarm, but that would surely do the opposite, “Did Eileen socialize with anyone from the office outside of work. Any of the nurses? Er... _ surgeons _ ?” 

Amanda chuckled, “Oh no. None of the surgeons pay a pence of attention to us. We barely exist to them with their tempers. Nurses,” she paused. “I don’t believe so. A few times we went out for a cuppa after work.” 

“Ever a pint?” Sherlock asked sharply, taking in Eileen’s desk. 

“Eileen wasn’t a wild type. She was a real quiet type. Kept to herself mostly.” 

Sherlock took in Eileen’s desk. “Has this been altered at all?” Sherlock asked in a pointed voice.

“It’s just how she left it.” 

Eileen’s desk was the opposite of Natalie’s flat. Disregarding the solid fortnight of dust that had collected in the receptionist’s absence, everything was neat and orderly. There were color coded files in her drawers full of billing information. On her desk sat a framed snapshot from a holiday, Sherlock had to guess by the orientation of the palm trees in Bermuda. The photo was of the blonde young woman and two people who were undoubtedly her parents. Besides that was a small canvas, with a Biblical proverb printed in magenta cursive. 

“Amanda, tell me, was Eileen particularly religious?” Sherlock asked. 

“Very,” the brunette said before shushing her tone, “she didn’t even drink.” 

“Didn’t even drink you say?” Sherlock said in a deadpan voice, “That’s a stark contrast to a prostitute.” 

“A what?” Amanda asked in amazement. 

“Thank you, Amanda,” Lestrade said quickly. “If you’ll leave us, we’ll just need to go through her computer.” 

Amanda turned the corner out of earshot, and Lestrade continued, “Sherlock, we’ve gone through Natalie Stockwell’s laptop. Found her dating history. She had one date on there that we couldn’t check out. One bloke she met up with. We tried to access that account. The email address is heavily encrypted. Our blokes in tech crimes have seen nothing like it.” 

“Well, your  _ blokes _ are far from the best, aren’t they?” Sherlock challenged. “I’ll need some time again with her laptop.”

Lestrade sighed in surrender. 

A few days later, Sherlock darted down a back lane in Kensington, his dark coat contrasted from the white stone homes. He turned to his brother’s, and he let himself inside, using the key that Mycroft was not smart enough to confiscate after the  _ Eurus  _ scare he had invented a year before. 

Entering the darkened entryway, Sherlock didn’t bother to announce himself. It was 4 o’clock on a Tuesday, and Sherlock knew exactly where his brother would be found— in his study, perusing documents of various levels of importance, and drinking tea. 

As he turned the corner of Mycroft’s wood paneled hallway, Sherlock came to a stop. There was something different in Mycroft’s 4 o’clock Tuesday routine on this particular day. Sherlock stood, his brow raised, staring down a petite blonde woman, who looked up at him with a shocked face. 

Sherlock groaned, “Susan, I take it?” he asked politely. He then yelled into the depths of Mycroft’s home, “Brother mine, I’ve startled your goldfish into mimicking one herself. Where are you?” 

Mycroft emerged from a room other than his office and poked his head into the hallway. “Sherlock, I really need to take away that key.” 

“Well, someone needs to be responsible for checking in on you,” Sherlock said with a sharp grin, darting his eyes over to Susan’s uneasy face. She had cleared out of Sherlock’s path in the hallway and was now standing off to the side. He walked ahead and invited himself into the sitting room Mycroft found himself occupying at 4 o’clock on this particular Tuesday. 

“Shall we then?” Sherlock asked before shutting the door and leaving 

“For what do I owe this visit?” Mycroft asked, taking a seat in the loveseat opposite his brother. 

“How many days has Miss Crawford been here? Or nights should I ask?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Mycroft scoffed. “She could have just arrived this afternoon.” 

“Her hair hasn’t been washed in two days, and she isn’t wearing shoes. You would never let a mere day visitor walk around your castle barefoot.” 

“Four days,” said Mycroft, leaning back in his chair. 

“Are you becoming committed?” Sherlock asked incredulously. 

“Now, now, brother mine. There’s no need to get worked up over it. After all, you have Dr. Watson.” 

“John and I don’t have slumber parties that venture on lasting a week.” 

“What can I do for you?” 

“You may as well just move her in at this rate.” 

“I’m considering it. Again, I ask, what can I do for you?” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this piece of news. 

“Are you familiar with the case of the Black Dahlia?” Sherlock asked. 

“Elizabeth Short, I don’t live under a rock. Don’t tell me you aren’t trying to solve that.” 

“What if I told you someone was copying the killer in London? Two bodies have shown up so far.” 

“I’d heard that there had been a few grisly body dumps lately,” Mycroft said, cracking his knuckles. 

“I need your help getting around an encryption,” Sherlock said tentatively. “This encryption is the key to the killer’s identity. Lestrade’s spooks can't get around it.” Sherlock paused before muttering, “I can’t even get around it.” 

“I’m no programmer,” Mycroft said aimlessly. “How on earth could I help you?” 

“The encryption is to a MI-6 backed email address. I do believe that is your department,” Sherlock said pointedly. 

Mycroft Holmes raised his eyebrows. “For Christ’s sake Sherlock, what have you gotten into now…” 


End file.
